


Ineffable Valentine's - a love story in 29 parts

by LoveLettersUnsent



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale eating, Chocolate, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley accidentally becomes a god, Crowley causing mischief only for it to backfire on him, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Poetry, References to Aztec Religion & Lore, Smut, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), bookshop opening, ineffablevalentines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveLettersUnsent/pseuds/LoveLettersUnsent
Summary: 29 prompts, 29 stories. Fluff, angst, and So. Much. Pining. Will mainly focus on the Husbands, but others may appear. Pairings and ratings stated at the start of each chapter.Posts will vary in rating and length. Prompts from MielPetit.Chapter 3: Aziraphale explores a poetry exhibit. Crowley suddenly finds a few of the pieces terrifyingly familiar.AKA - Aziraphale finds Crowley's WIPs
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 39
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	1. The God of Chocolate

This was easily the most ridiculous temptation he had _ever_ been sent on. 

He’d had to fly on his own (literally) damned wings halfway across the bloody globe because humans hadn’t even realised there was something on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, let alone set up transport routes. He’d landed near a city only to find that his corporation didn’t look anything like the locals. After the first volley of spears he’d quickly dove into the thick underbrush and turned into his snake form. 

That was three months ago. Three. Crowley had been stuck as a snake for _three months_. And he was furious. He had a phantom itch on his left elbow that he currently didn’t even have and he was tired of lurking around trying to learn the language via eavesdropping. He remembered Hell’s missive sending him over here with the closest thing to a scowl his snake face muscles could achieve. “Hell’s agents have discovered there’s an entire continent of humans Heaven isn’t paying attention to. Get over there and cause some serious trouble.”

So here he was, stuck in the middle of a vast jungle, wondering where the humans got all that bloody stone from for these temples. He slivered from home to home, watching humans doing all their human things - wondering if he could get Aziraphale over here at some point, the angel would love all the odd creative things these particular humans are getting up to. Everything was so distinctly more colourful than what they had managed in Europe, he found himself wondering if their literature was as different too. 

He shook his head, acutely aware that he shouldn’t be trying to find out where the bloody library was to play tour guide round the Aztec empire for an angel whilst he had work to do. He was slithering up the endless stars to the top of one of the temples, trying to keep his coils from slipping onto the hard stone ledges below. The city had been gearing up for some sort of festival for the last couple of weeks and if Crowley had learnt anything about humans is that the one thing humans loved doing after a religious festival was sinning. So he was headed to the epicentre, the main temple itself as the priests were covering some seemingly random human in feathers and oils.

He snuck into the chamber and coiled around the top of a statue, settling down to watch how this played out, looking out for anything that he could mess with - Hell hadn’t contacted him since he got here, but patience was certainly not one of Hell’s top 7. He needed to start delivering some results, and soon.

Below him the priests finish talking and lie the man on a stone plinth, Crowley cocked his head curiously, the man’s breathing heavily and terror rolls off of him in waves. “Well,” he hisses softly to himself. “This suddenly doesn’t look too good.” 

The priests cry out to the crowds below, raising a huge stone knife over the man’s chest. Point hovering over his heart. 

“Oh, shit.” Craning to get a better view, Crowley feels his scales slip on the smooth stone. His body tumbles through the air in writing coils of black. 

Now, we should take a moment to appreciate that whilst Crowley may be an immortal being capable of immense magic power, he was currently falling through the air in a form he wasn't used to, and not only that he was having the phantom sensation of limbs from a corporation that wasn’t at all similar to his true occult form. In his mind’s eye he was, at the same time, a snake, a human, and an eldritch horror of corrupted angel form.

In short? He panicked.

In a frantic effort to stop himself from falling his wings erupted from his back, but too late. He crumpled to the ground in a gangly heap of scales and feathers. Dazed he raised his head, stretching his wings to check for damage.

The sound of a stone skittering across the ground made him look up.

“Oh. Um. Hello.” Crowley would have kicked himself if he’d currently had legs.

As it stood he was reared up in his snake form, with his angel wings somehow sticking out of his back, surrounded by very alarmed looking humans.

Something told him that they had spotted him.

It might have been the whimpering.

The main priest fell to his knees. (Crowley could tell it was the main priest, he had the biggest hat on. Didn’t matter the religion, they all followed the same rule. The bigger your hat the closer you were to your god/deity/spirit/etc. It was one of those weird rules that is just accepted all over the world without anyone really talking about it.) 

“Oh great Lord Quetzalcoatl, we are humbled to receive you on this day, the festival of your great self!” Crowley tried not to let his panic show on his face - which was pretty easy whilst his face was a snake, but still. The man was fumbling with his words and looked panicked himself. Crowley didn’t blame him. How many gods show up to their festivals? Poor bloke hadn’t been trained in what to do if your god actually shows up when you call on him.

Crowley realised he was going to have to say something. He sure hoped he’d picked up enough of the language.

“Right. Um. You’re most welcome, oh, um, most loyal servant.” He cringed at himself, hoping the fact he wasn’t using a human mouth would account for his atrocious (and somehow painfully English) accent.

The priest rose to his feet, picking up the stone knife. “We offer up this soul to you, let his heart beat within yours forever and-” 

Crowley lurched forward and snatched the knife out of his hand. Like Heaven was anybody getting his chest ripped open for him - no way a martyr was going to add to his talty, Hell would give him no end of grief if he got a soul sent Up instead of Down.

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. Need you lads to change the sacrifice. Hearts aren’t cutting it anymore.” He blurted, frantically looking around the room trying to find anything that he could replace it with. 

His caught sight of the weird fruit they’d been making drinks out of. 

Perfect!

He slithered over to the table covered in pods and shook out his wings. If he was going to be playing God he was going to do it with style, bless it. In a deep theatrical voice he intoned to the gathered priests, “Here. I gifted these to humans in years past.” He hadn’t, but you know humans, always looking for an epic origin story, even for plants. “These are what you should split open and consume in my honour. In return I shall grant you…” Crowley faltered. What could he promise humans that he didn’t have to actually make happen every time… Oh! He grinned as he realised the perfect thing. “My blessing and virality to you and your bedchamber.” He winked, humans never questioned a blessing in the bedroom and the best part was, if you told them ‘this will make you horny’ then the placebo effect did all the work for him. 

Plus, if this catches on, the next round of festivities are going to put the entire Concubus division to shame. Nothing ends a festival like a good old fashioned orgy.

The priest looks confused, but raises a cup of the liquid to his lips, as he swallowed Crowley flapped his wings, using the motion to cover a small temptation, just to make the aphrodisiac idea stick.

The priest swallowed thickly as his eyes rolled back slightly, hand flying to cover the bulge in his robes.

“Don’t doubt my gifts,” Crowley intoned, trying not to laugh as the priest hurriedly took another mouthful, this time shuddering with no infernal assistance. “Now.” He smirked with a snake’s lips, turning to the rest of the priests. “Make sure everyone knows of this. No more sacrifices. Let how you prepare this Gift be how you devote yourself to me. Let how you spend your gift be how you worship me.” The crowd surged forward, even the poor bloke about to be sacrificed. Crowley didn’t miss the way his eyes were hungry, but he wasn’t looking at the cup, he was looking at the head priest that held it. 

He slithered up to the man, voice soft and mischievous, his best temptation voice, “He won’t deny you tonight.” he hissed, he wouldn’t be much of a demon if he didn’t recognise that look of someone trying to impress his crush. Even if letting yourself be sacrificed was taking things a bit far. He miracled a steaming cup into his hands. “Make sure you share that with him when you visit his chambers.” 

Even without turning around he could hear the priests scrabbling to make more, and he took that as a chance to sneak out of the door, quickly miracling himself away.

Hell give him a commendation, and he won “Lust employee of the month”. The Concubine department never forgive him - but then again, he’s unforgivable. Comes with the whole “demon thing”, afterall. 

\------

Crowley lounges in a bookshop that still smells of fresh paint, his top hat hung on a hook by the door. Aziraphale had fussed over every detail, from where the lamps were best placed to exactly how his collection should be organised. He’d just sent Gabriel packing with a great bit of acting and a spare bed sheet, and now the grand opening of Aziraphale’s bookshop was well underway.

The sign on the door was turned to “closed” but why would the angel want customers ruining his big day?

Crowley slid the chocolate across the coffee table and smiles when Aziraphale’s face lights up as he fusses over which one to try first.

“Hey, angel?” He drawled, sipping on a glass of very fine red, “Did I ever tell you about the time I visited the Aztecs?”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, his eyes rolling back as the chocolate melted on his tongue, a truly sinful noise quietly reverberating from his throat.

Crowley felt his mouth drop open as his trousers tightened.

Aziraphale delicately sucked a smudge of melted chocolate from this thumb, pink tongue chasing the sweetness and Crowley had to wonder how fake his ‘fake aphrodisiac miracle’ had really been.

Then Aziraphale moaned around a second chocolate and Crowley found it very hard to focus on anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only One God and that is Quetzalcoatl, as he brought the cacao bean to humanity. I worship him and his prophet, Cadbury.
> 
> This is what happens when I realise Aziraphale loves chocolate and chocolate was brought to Earth by a _feathered serpent_ god that _discouraged sacrifices_ (i.e. is a bit soft) and, in one version of his origin story, was born as one of 400 _stars_.
> 
> This was probably a bit out there from the prompt 'Chocolate' but here we are XD


	2. A path of petals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley  
> Rating: E - here be smut, consider yourself warned!
> 
> Prompt: Roses
> 
> Tags: fellatio/blow jobs/male anatomy oral

One by one the stars twinkled into sight as Aziraphale hurried through the darkened streets. He glanced upwards, smiling at the simple beauty of the silver glimmers against the deep blue of the night. Sometimes he missed the hustle and bustle of the city, but he never regretted moving out to the country with Crowley. 

His bookshop had turned into a private collection, ran from a specially converted barn nestled against the quaint cottage they now shared. On the other side of the building a modern garage sat under a facade of Tudor beams and thatch (just to keep the local council off of their backs, nothing to do with the gently flowering vines that Crowley was bullying to weave their way up the antique looking trellis, of course not).

Aziraphale hefted the bundle in his arms and quickened his pace. He was frightfully late. He tutted at the memory of the bidding going back and forth around the room for hours in every lot before his target was even called up. Once the first edition of original Bronte poetry had been brought forward however, the bidding ended surprisingly quickly. Experts put it down to how aggressive the bidding had been on the previous items, leaving people without the funds to indulge on the final lot of the day. 

Aziraphale agreed and refused to comment further, looking forward to taking his prize home with him.

Finally at the cottage, Aziraphale let himself in the backdoor, taking the small detour to appreciate the new blooms on the roses that Crowley had sent him a picture of on that remarkable but utterly confoundingly mobile telephone that he had bought and insisted that he take with him everywhere.

He didn’t appreciate the silly thing with its amazingly breakable screen and curious habit of bleeping for no particular reason. But he did love the fact Crowley kept sending him photos whenever their business happened to take them out and about on their own. It could be anything from an odd antique he saw in a charity shop to the play of light on the flowers by the greenhouse in their garden.

It was incredibly endearing of the demon, and Aziraphale tried to send things back. A display of novelty sunglasses, or a poster advertising a vinyl market. His thumb was in most of them, but he hoped the thought behind it was still coming through. 

There didn’t seem to be as many flowers on the rose bush as he had seen in the photo, but maybe there were more hidden in the gloom that he couldn’t see?

With the soft jingle of keys Aziraphale let himself into their cottage, placing the book reverently on the table as he toed off his shoes by the door.

Flicking on the kitchen light he blinked at a rose hanging in the doorway to the hall. Pink and fresh it span lightly in the breeze he’d let in with him. 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together in confusion as he walked towards it - finally spotting the steady path of petals cast along the hallway. He smiled to himself. His demon (oh, oh how long he had longed to call Crowley his! But that was behind them. Now they had eternity to be no one but each other’s) might act like he was still heartless and damned, but he could be so heartbreakingly romantic. A few nights after they had moved in together Crowley had told him everything - how he’d loved Aziraphale since Eden, how now they were together he was going to enact every fantasy he’d had to bury over the last 6 millennia. Both the achingly sweet little things, and the ones that left Aziraphale red faced and boneless, exhausted and elated all at once with only the energy left to pull the demon into a tight hug until dawn lightened the sky outside their window.

The trail of petals promised to be a good helping of both - Aziraphale had read enough romance novels to know the trope well. He shucked off his coat and hung it by the front door, contemplating how many of his layers he should divest himself of before reaching the bedroom. Eventually he decided to keep everything but the coat on - Crowley hadn’t said anything out loud but Aziraphale could tell by the way the demon took his time disrobing him that something about it got under his skin. Watching Crowley’s face flush, his teeth lightly biting that gorgeous bottom lip as he worked buttons, untucked shirts, left him flushed and hungry, feeling like Crowley was slowly unwrapping him like a present at Christmas.

Oh good lord, he was barely halfway up the stairs, delicately balanced petals drifting off the banister as he passed, and he could feel himself twitching in his trousers. Both of them had been surprised by how, well, hungry, Aziraphale constantly seemed to be for him, now that he was finally allowed to indulge. It seemed anything and everything had the potential to have Aziraphale sliding into his lap, sneaking kisses onto his neck. Crowley walking into the kitchen, sweat in his hairline and dirt on his fingers after tending to the garden. Crowley handing over a box of pastries from the next town over, murmuring that he just happened to be passing it, when Aziraphale knew full well his business for the day took him in the complete opposite direction.

The way he sometimes relaxed when he looked over their life together, a soft smile on his lips.

The effortless way he seemed to shimmy out of those ridiculously tight jeans, in a way that had to be a miracle. 

The way his eyes hooded and seemed to glow as he loomed over Aziraphale, trailing fingers with a hint of nail down his chest, the tiniest growl of “mine” vibrating from his throat.

Aziraphale stopped in the upstairs hallway, admiring the way the petals were laid out to fill the beam of low golden light spilling from their bedroom. He allowed himself a quick squeeze through his trousers, imagining the scene he was about to walk into.

Would Crowley be naked, surrounded by petals, a hand already on his cock, keeping himself half hard until Aziraphale? Or fully clothed, waiting for Aziraphale to undress him, whispering filthy promises in his ear, making Aziraphale fumble buttons and catch fabric in zips as he whimpered with need? Would he be wearing that absolutely delectable lingerie set he’d bought from the city before they left? The one with the matching stockings, red serpents embroidered around the garter hooks?

With a deep breath and a final indulgent squeeze through his trousers, Aziraphale pushed open the door, Crowley’s name a purr from his throat.

Then he stopped, heart sinking in his chest.

Crowley was indeed on the bed, lying surrounded by pink petals, completely nude from head to toe. There was champagne on the bedside table, chocolates on the foot of the bed, soft candles on the dresser.

And the sound of Crowley’s soft snores in the air.

Aziraphale deflated with a soft, “Oh.” 

Evidently he had been later back than he had thought. He silently cursed everyone in the auction for taking so long. Here was he gorgeous demon, lying in the cold, waiting for him to come home. And he was out haggling over the price of Bronte.

He hesitated in the doorway. On one hand, Crowley was clearly asleep, and he was loath to wake him. Just because the angel had never seen the appeal he wasn’t about to deny Crowley his hobby. On the other, he couldn’t really not react to the effort Crowley had put into setting this all up. How would the poor dear feel when he woke up to Aziraphale reading beside him, fully clothed, as if the flowers was nothing out of the ordinary?

As he argued with himself Aziraphale’s eyes roamed over Crowley’s naked form. Miles of legs and freckled skin. Angles and soft slopes, divots and rises that Aziraphale longed to kiss and lick until dawn, all covered with a light smattering of petals where the demon had shifted in his sleep, clinging to his skin as he had rolled over and back again, getting comfortable in his slumber.

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. 

Crowley had taken the time to lay himself out like a treat, who was he to deny either of them this?

With a thought he sent his clothes to the walk-in wardrobe, one side filled with blacks and reds, the other with browns and creams. He shivered as the chill in the room hit his suddenly naked skin, the candle light flickering over his soft milky body.

He slid onto the bed, suddenly feeling mischievous, trying not to wake Crowley. He looked so relaxed like this. The demon wore his denim and sunglasses like armour, and here he was on Aziraphale’s bed, soft and open, relaxed and utterly, utterly, at home. 

Aziraphale reached the first petal, clinging to the soft hair above the swell of Crowley’s ankle. He pulled the petal of and kissed where it had lain with reverent lips.

The candlelight flickered as Aziraphale worked his way up Crowley’s legs - his nose tickling the faintly red hair along his shins, the angel relishing in the slight roughness on his tongue. 

He left the single petal lying on the very top of the red thatch between his legs alone and set his lips to the one settled in the soft valley at the top of his hips. The skin was smooth and yielding, Aziraphale slightly lost in the sensation of having his lover pliant under his tongue, his to worship and adore at his leisure. He sealed his lips over the skin and sucked, running his tongue over the reddening skin with a reverence that would have left him gasping to admit to before the failed apocalypse.

He slid his eyes open, watching with faint amusement as the cock by his face twitched and seemed to fill slightly as he looked at it.

“I see you’re home, then.” Crowley’s voice was thick with sleep and as soft as the candlelight.

Aziraphale looked up, sliding his hand up Crowley’s relaxed thigh, feeling the muscles lying just beneath the skin.

“How long have you been awake?” Aziraphale asked, utterly unembarrassed to have been caught out, fingers dipping between Crowley’s legs, running along the sensitive skin there and watching Crowley shiver into it.

“Not long. You’re late. I had a plan and everything.” Crowley groused, with absolutely no heat in it. He was still relaxed with sleep, body reacting without shame to Aziraphale’s attention.

“The auction took forever, but I’m here now.” Aziraphale moved up to a petal quivering on the skin above Crowley’s belly button and he pushed it onto the bed with gentle huff that had goosebumps blooming across the demon’s skin.

“Did you get the book, though?” Crowley asked even as he sighed into the sharp tug of skin as Aziraphale nipped the skin with the perfect amount of pressure, not enough to properly hurt, but enough to be felt, and to linger until the next sensation came.

Aziraphale felt his heart swell. Here he was, naked and laid out on his bed, and Crowley still cared about his books.

“Yes, my dear, thank you for asking. Now, what was your plan?” Aziraphale slid up Crowley’s chest, leaving quick nips below a clump of petals on his pec, taking his time to lather attention on the nipple below them, feeling it perk and harden on his tongue. Crowley’s hand found its way into his hair, gripping slightly as he arched his spine under the attention.

“Doesn’t matter.” He panted, running his fingers through the angel’s curls, “Wasn’t as good as this. We’ll do it another time.”

Aziraphale smiled against the petal in Crowley’s clavicle, making sure the demon could feel it, moving on to worry the slightly slack skin with his teeth. Snatching the chance to glance down he was proud to see Crowley fully hard now, his prick red and arching upwards, the head seemingly pointed straight for him.

He felt his mouth water with the anticipation of tasting it.

Crowley saw him look. “You know, it’s the only part you haven’t kissed yet…” He whispered hopefully.

“But it doesn’t have a petal on it. That would be against the rules.” Aziraphale said with mock petulance, leaning over Crowley to finally claim his lips.

Crowley arched into the kiss, his body snaking against Aziraphale’s. The kiss was slow, unhurried, they had eternity together, the night was young. They could take this time they had fought so hard to keep to themselves. Aziraphale moaned into Crowley’s mouth, utterly enraptured by the taste and sensation of Crowley’s tongue against his. He felt Crowley’s triumphant smirk and, not to be outdone, coaxed the demon’s tongue into his mouth and sucked on it, just the way Crowley liked. The groan that shook from Crowley’s throat was the sweetest sound Aziraphale had ever heard.

The kiss draws to a close and they pull apart, just a scant inch or so, but enough to gaze into each other’s eyes. Blue on gold, no longer separated by darkened lenses, both open and full of utter adoration for the other.

“Hey, angel?”

Crowley’s voice is gentle, quiet, and Aziraphale immediately doesn’t trust it.

“I think you missed one.” He said with a pointed glance down.

Aziraphale looks down the expanse of Crowley’s chest, and there, sure enough, balanced extremely improbably on the swollen head of Crowley’s full cock is a single petal. 

Aziraphale chuckled, hanging his head. “You impossible thing, when did you…?”

“Me?” Crowley asked, incredulous (if he had had pearls he’d be clutching them in offense) the perfect picture of innocence. 

“Yes, you, you wily demon.” He said with a smirk. “But, as I am an angel, I must follow the rules to the letter…” he whispered, sliding his way down Crowley’s chest, lips caressing each lingering mark as he went. Crowley indulged in a full body shiver, settling into the pillows as his hand found purchase in the soft curls at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale displaced the petal with a soft breath, the cool air across Crowley’s heated flesh sending another full body shudder through him. Aziraphale smiled, peppering the shaft with kisses, until Crowley squirmed and skittered on the sheets.

“Angel..” he groaned, and Aziraphale finally took pity on him, sliding his mouth over the heavy rod of flesh.

Aziraphale had learnt many things during his long life - some more useful than others, one piece of knowledge that he treasured at times like this was obtained for the paltry membership fee of 100 Guineas. 

And that knowledge was this - the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate absolutely adored sucking cock.

What he had discovered recently was that he was never happier to do so when pillowed on the thighs of his Adversary, the Demon Crowley.

He settled into the rhythm with a single minded gusto, starting slow and tortuous, his tongue lathing the hot hardness in his mouth, angling his head to run the soft flesh of the head against the slick insides of his cheek.

Crowley sighed and moaned under him, the mixed feelings of submission and control thrumming pleasantly under Aziraphale’s skin as he wrapped a hand around the base, coaxing the skin back so he could placed wet open mouth kissed to the exposed head.

Under his hands Crowley’s thighs started to shake, the demon’s fingers tightening in his hair. A sure sign that he was done with the teasing. Aziraphale obliged his demon and relaxed his throat, taking Crowley hard and deep. He kept a steady pace, quick enough to build Crowley’s pleasure but not so quick to bring everything to a close.

One of the benefits of being an ethereal entity is not having to breathe or rest if you didn’t want to. And Aziraphale wouldn’t want to stop now for the world. 

Crowley brought his knee up, legs falling open, fingers pushing Aziraphale gently, but insistently forward. Aziraphale went willingly, taking Crowley as deep as he could and swallowing around him, throat constricting tight and hot, and so, so deep.

Crowley came with a groan that Aziraphale swore he could feel start in his balls.

He swallowed his down, relishing the sensation and the taste on his tongue as he pulled off of him.

The demon was the very picture of decadence, covered in love bites and a slight sheen of sweat at his temples. Boneless he lay on black sheets, a streak of pale skin laid out for the angel to enjoy whenever he wanted. Crowley managed to grunt and twitch his head back, and Aziraphale wrapped himself around him gladly, lightly stroking his chest as he nuzzled and kissed Crowley’s neck, waiting for him to come back to himself. 

After a quiet moment of soft endearments and light kisses Crowley looked down at him with a wicked grin that suddenly had his heart racing.

“Why, angel, would you look at you?” Crowley purred.

“Me? You’re the one who-” Aziraphale looked down at himself. “Oh, would you look at that?”

As Aziraphale had slid up and down the bed, exploring Crowley where he lay, he’d been picking up petals himself. They clung to him, either alone or in clusters, the pinks stark against white skin.

Crowley’s grin widened as his eyes traced patterns between each one.

“Let’s get you tidied up, angel.” He said, the words molten gold and dripping from his tongue. Aziraphale shivered.

“Oh, well, if you insist…” He lay back and let the demon do his worst.

Afterall, he had gone to all the trouble of setting all the petals out… it would be a shame to tidy them away so soon.

How many days do rose petals last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First published smut in 10 years, not saying it's been a while, just saying I was half tempted to tag this as 'lemon'.
> 
> I will be doing all 29 prompts, they just might not be every day. Life is a cruel mistress and I'd hate to make promises I can't keep.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Of words better lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale explores a poetry exhibit. Crowley suddenly finds a few of the pieces terrifyingly familiar.
> 
> AKA - Aziraphale finds Crowley's WIPs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley  
> Rating: T
> 
> Prompt: Poetry
> 
> Tags: my attempts at poetry. Consider yourself warned.

‘I should get a bloody medal for this,’ Crowley thought as he trailed behind Aziraphale. ‘“Boyfriend of the friggin’ year.” on a little gold disc. I could point to it everytime I wanted anything from him, the bastard, he _owes me_ for this.’ The demon tried to ignore the powerful urge to fiddle with his mobile, knowing Aziraphale would never forgive him for having his phone out in the British Library, of all places. 

The angel had been vibrating with excitement over this exhibit for weeks - a special event for February, a collection of romantic poetry through the course of human history. From notes in cutiform to highly regarded instagram accounts. It was a detailed look on how, regardless of how the world changed dramatically from decade to decade, love had remained constant. Aziraphale found it fascinating, as he did any odd human quirk, but Crowley was extremely bored.

He was a temptation demon, he could have told Aziraphale that humans hadn’t changed in 6000 years - his techniques rarely needed updating, after all. Oh, sure, the dance had to change constantly to accommodate a seemingly unfathomable series of social norms. But when you got past the monogrammed handkerchiefs, half a dozen sheep, or 24 hour minimum wait times to text after the first date nonsense, human love all boiled down to the same core principle.

“Being with you makes me happy. I want to be with you more.”

That’s it. 

Simple as.

Humans weren’t complicated. They didn’t have long. So they found anything that made them happy, made them feel something good and clung to it. It was Crowley’s (literal) job to make them forget about all the social norms and whatnot that got between them and what they wanted, after all. He couldn’t make someone fall in love with someone else, all he did was convince them that whatever was holding them back didn’t really matter. Not really. Not when they could have _them_.

Now, Crowley’s love for Aziraphale. That was worth writing an ode or ten to. That was Complicated. 

Crowley mused to himself as he meandered through the gallery. 

He’d been trying for 6000 years to untangle his feelings for the angel. But where the heaven did you start? Well, with Heaven, he supposed. “Unforgivable, that’s what I am.” He meant to sound snarky, aloof, biting. What he’d actually done was expose that specter that hung over every encounter with Aziraphale. “You are a Demon. I am an Angel. We’re hereditary enemies.” Except…

Except they both knew that wasn’t true. Not for them. If it was, Aziraphale would have smited him the second he’d slithered up onto that wall. Heaven, if it was Crowley wouldn’t have popped over for a quick chat. He’d have gone around mucking up more of Eden just to be a nuisance. 

Something, some indescribable, undefinable thing, existed between them. Something made Crowley lean forward to watch the way Aziraphale ate. Something made the way the angel had a bookshop, but hated selling books, strangely adorable rather than frustratingly stupid. Something made the way he lit up when he was happy charming, rather than slightly unsettling to see on a middle aged man.

Something made his stomach flip with a sort of giddiness when Aziraphale called him “dear boy”, instead of vaguely offended at some perceived condescension. 

He’d been trying to figure it out for centuries, but the words always looked ridiculous when he put them to paper. What he and Aziraphale shared was vastly more complicated than just ‘he makes me happy’ it was like ocean brine filling all the hollow parts of him, washing him clean. 

Cringing at how trite that sounded, Crowley caught up with Aziraphale, as he was leant over a clay tablet.

“Oh Crowley, my dear, look at this. It’s beautiful, but they’ve got the Latin slightly wrong. Here, look, it should read:

_The philosphers claim that one were once two  
And we long to be one  
But that means there is a part of me that is you  
And a part of you that is me  
Two separate things,  
Easily labelled  
Easily broken to their separate parts._

_No, you are not a part that makes me.  
You fill the parts of me that were void  
The parts of me in you  
And the parts of you in me  
Swirling together  
Forever changing  
Forever each other  
Like ocean brine filling all the hollow parts of me  
Washing me clean._

“Simply beautiful, I hope they have a copy of all these in the gift shop.” Aziraphale muttered, moving onto the next exhibit as Crowley stared in mute horror at the clay.

At his own SATAN-BLESSED HANDWRITING.

Crowley kept his body still and his face neutral as his thoughts imploded.

That was his. That was HIS. His stupid rubbish attempts at poetry from 2000 years ago on display in the British Library.

His stupid rubbish attempts at poetry from 2000 years ago being read by AZIRAPHALE.

And Aziraphale… liked it?

“Simply beautiful.” He’d said.

Crowley’s stomach did a funny little flip.

At least it wasn’t the one he’d written after one too many Shakespear plays, how did that go again? Something like… 

_‘Bards hath sung of Love’s cruel nature,  
How we languish at the whims of her games,  
Every sonnet, every Ode, Pales in stature -’_

_“And, for me, love hath only your Name.”_ Aziraphale muttered a few displays down. 

Crowley turned his head so fast he felt his neck click.

There, sitting brightly lit behind tempered glass was his chicken scratch handwriting, the lines scrawled sideways along the back of a poster for Hamlet.

This couldn’t be happening. He looked through the case with frantic eyes.

It wasn’t evey display, not by a long shot, but here and there, on pottery and on clay, on faded parchment and enduring vellum, his words pinned and presented with little cards explaining the digs and collections they had been found in. The title of this section was “Redemption through love”.

This was Hell. It had to be. Beelzebub had found him. Punished him for the apocalypse. No way was this happening. This was some sort of fever dream. It _had_ to be.

Aziraphale continued his slow progress down the cabinet, murmuring and cooing over phrases that Crowley had written, shouted at, and thrown away over centuries. Seeming unaware that Crowley was locked in a silent panic right next to him.

In his head Crowley thanked any agent of Heaven or Hell that happened to be listening that he’d never used the angel’s blessed name in any of them. There were half a dozen pieces of his mixed up in the display, Crowley’s mind suddenly racing through the hundreds he had written and thrown away over the years, trying to figure out which ones would be most damning. Trying to remember which ones he hadn’t specifically burnt or broken.

Then he saw the last thing in the display.

A cloth bound journal from the early Victorian era.

Bought from a bookseller down by Charing Cross that had snuff clinging to his left nostril in a way that made Crowley want to curse him just for making him see it. He’d had to push the image from his mind as he focused on his latest attempt to make sense of all the feelings rushing around in his chest. Feelings where he had _used Aziraphale’s name_.

A journal that he’d left behind in a Club on Berkeley Square as he had set off to meet Aziraphale. A journal that had a 2 inch square ripped out its back page, where he’d scrawled “holy water” and condemned himself to a hundred years of anger and sleep.

He’d never gone back for it - the argument pushing everything out of his head. By the time he’d woken up again, the club was long gone, bombed during the Great War, and Crowley had dismissed the journal as lost to the flames.

Obviously the BLESSED thing had survived just to taunt him.

Crowley risked a quick glance upwards. ‘If this is Your doing…’ he looked away, skin itching in that unpleasant way it always did when he tried to talk to the Almighty.

The price he paid for getting kicked off the speed dial list, he figured.

Aziraphale was getting closer to the journal.

Crowley dove forward, excuses flying through his head, each one worse than the previous.

“Hey angel, fancy getting some late lunch? I know a great basement bakery over by Euston that does the best cinnamon rolls.” The demon tried to keep the stark terror from his voice as he caught sight of the angel’s name clearly written on the journal’s page.

“Oh, shush, I know you’re not having the most exciting time, Crowley, but I’m almost done here.”

“Come on, angel, love is love, it hasn’t changed since Eve. You know that!” Crowley groused, trying to crowd Aziraphale past that last display before he noticed.

“Love hasn’t changed, but how humans let themselves feel it certainly has. All those toy shops in Soho are testament to that.” Azirapahle huffed.

“You have better poetry in your shop, and you know it - most of this stuff isn’t even signed!” Play to his pride, Crowley could do that at least, as he stepped directly between the angel and his bloody diary.

“Yes, but everyone has read Chaucer. This is new! I wonder if I could purchase the collection somehow, but the British library is frightfully covetous over its collection…” Aziraphale mused, starting off towards the front desk. Crowley’s heart rose. If he could just-

“I’ll finish reading what they have, then enquire on my way out.” He finished decisively.

Crowley panicked. That was the only reason he could give for the absolutely stupid thing he said next. 

“It’s humans talking about humans, anyway. What good is that to us, now, anyway? It’d be better if you got an angel to write something, or better yet, leave this and I’ll write you-ngk.” Crowley slammed his mouth shut hoping against hope that Azirapahle hadn’t realised what he’d just said.

“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale clapped his hands together in unbridled glee. He was damn near glowing, right there in the middle of the British Library. “Would you really, dearest? Oh, it would mean so much to me. Please say you will, Crowley.”

Crowley hung his head, defeated as always by his need to give Aziraphale everything he wanted. It looked like this was happening, whether he wanted it to or not.

“The thing is, Aziraphale, I already did. That’s why I was trying to get you to leave. I didn’t want you to see. But, if you really want to. Go on.” He said quietly.

With a sigh he stepped to one side and pointed a hand at the journal with all the glee of an innocent man being led to the gallows. Aziraphale looked at him quizzically then leant in, those pointless glasses sitting primly on his nose.

Crowley forced himself to watch Aziraphale’s face. Memorising every quirk of his eyebrow, every twinge of his lips. His insides felt like frozen lead. What if this was too much. What if it wasn’t enough. Aziraphale had been reading nothing but the finest literature ever since humans created writing. What were his attempts next to that? He suddenly found himself hating every clumsy phrase, every word he’d ever chosen. Everything he had ever written. 

He finally turned away, disgust in himself rising in his throat. Why had he ever thought his words would be good enough for the angel? Why had he ever thought that _he_ would ever be good enough for-

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet, the hand moving to lay on his arm soft. Crowley refused to raise his head, thankful that the sunglasses hid his eyes.

“Crowley, Crowley my dear, look at me.” Aziraphale was moving so slowly, like he was trying to tame a skittish cat.

Crowley finally forced his head up.

Aziraphale’s eyes shone with tears.

“Crowley, that was beautiful. I. I.” Aziraphale chuckled under his breath, making Crowley flinch until he realised it wasn’t at him. “I’m so sorry, my dearest, but I see to find myself without the words.” Aziraphale blushed, leaning forwards to gently kiss Crowley’s cheek.

“I’m so happy we finally have each other, my dear demon,” the angel said, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re right. I need not chase romance anymore. I have all I shall ever need and more with you.”

Crowley shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Yeah, angel. It’s you and me. Forever.”

Aziraphale beamed, Crowley miracling a sudden break in the clouds through the window to explain the way the entire library suddenly lit up. He slipped his hand into his as they wound their way out of the exhibit, Aziraphale stopping to buy a book collecting all the poems featured.

As they reached the Bentley parked outside the St Pancras Hotel (and curiously receiving no comment from the hotel staff) Azirapahle smiled slyly at him, holding out the book and a pen.

“You wouldn’t mind signing this for me, would you dear? It is a first edition, afterall.”

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. The glorious angelic bastard.

He was finally all his, he didn’t need the poetry anymore.

\---------

At the end of the day the lights were dimmed and the security set in the library, where the words of a lovesick demon hung in plain sight, trapped in glass.

_My love for you is nothing like the sun  
For the sun may be hidden  
And fades with the dying of the day_

_My love is not like a forest  
For forests may wither  
And they change with the season_

_My love is not the air,  
For breath may be stolen  
And the winds are ever changing_

_My love is not my God  
For God can be found wanting  
And devotion can be misplaced_

_My love is gravity  
Ever constant  
Ever present_

_Yes, my love is gravity  
Bending all to its whims  
That fixed point that pulls me round_

_My love is an orbit  
With no desire to get away  
Powerless to get closer_

_My love is the universe  
And you are my centre  
All I am revolves around you  
_

__

__

_My stars are pale,  
and their time is done  
next to you, Aziraphale_

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! If you have any requests for future chapters, please let me know! If I can think of a good plot to be worthy of the request I'll strong arm a prompt to fit :)
> 
> And comments, crits, and conversation are always welcome! Hit that button below and let's chat.


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